


Ghost Stories

by salamadersaurus_rex



Series: Broadway Agents of Themyscira [2]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: AU, Crossover, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 01:42:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11117256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salamadersaurus_rex/pseuds/salamadersaurus_rex
Summary: Peggy and Diana meet in a bar after the war. Inspired by argyle-s' post on Tumblr.





	Ghost Stories

**Author's Note:**

> Contains slight spoilers for Wonder Woman.

It’s a bourbon on the rocks night, but the barman gives her lukewarm whiskey instead.

“Sorry doll.”

No ice in the bin, the bar-back’s on his way but he’s a little slow, you know? Oh and we’re out of the good stuff.

Peggy takes the whiskey anyway, printing her lipstick on the edge of the glass like a badge. It’s crap but what’s she to expect, she’s in a dive bar buried in the West Village, head swimming in a soup of cigarette smoke and jukebox jazz, and drinking alone.

“Another?” The barman asks when she’s done.

“Please.”

From where she’s sat Peggy can see along the length of the bar. There’s a few guys with briefcases hidden behind the legs of their barstools, staring into a cup or a glass or in one guy’s case a bowl of peanuts. They’re all in the same grey hats and long coats, the post-war uniforms of the modern working man.

The door at the far end of the bar has two glass panels set in it, and Peggy can see out into the busy street. It’s dark already, and wet, and commuters hurry home holding day old newspapers or black umbrellas over their heads. Someone tall, trench coat flapping behind them strides across the street, legs caught briefly in a cab’s headlights.

The figure pauses under the bar’s little porch and Peggy can see she’s a woman. The rim of her hat and the shoulders of her coat drip with November rain, and she scans the room quickly before entering.

 _A woman after my own heart_ , Peggy thinks before she turns back to the bartender, who’s holding out a couple of fingers of bad whiskey, and asking if she’s had a bad day.

Peggy smiles disarmingly at him. It doesn’t reach her eyes but what does that matter, it’s enough for him to grin and forget his question and that’s all Peggy needs. She settles lower on her bar stool, watching out the corner of her eye as the woman in the trench coat and fedora sits down on the stool to her left.

She sits ramrod straight, and Peggy guesses it’s a holdover from the war. Some people never dropped the iron spine. The barman asks if she wants her usual and she nods, dropping a few dollars on the bar.

“You wanna open a tab, darlin’?” the barman asks, filling a jigger with what’s left of a bottle of white rum. “You’ve been here every night this week.”

Peggy’s about as interested in the barman’s bad flirting as she is in anything Thompson says, ever, but then the woman shifts, her hand going to her neck to readjust her collar, and Peggy catches sight of something shiny.

She tenses instantly. There’s a gun in her purse, a knife strapped to her thigh and she could do a lot of damage with the barstool she’s sitting on, but then the woman drops her hand back down to the bar top. She opens her fist, like she knows Peggy’s watching. It’s empty.

“So, can I see you round here more often?” the barman asks, depositing a Daiquiri in front of the woman and taking her money.

“No.”

Peggy can’t help her grin.

The barman sighs. “Shame. I like your custom, doll.”

The woman takes a sip of her Daiquiri and tips her fedora, and Peggy catches a flash of long dark hair tied back in a bun. She swirls her crap whiskey in its glass.

“This needs more sugar.” The woman’s voice is accented, Greek if Peggy doesn’t know any better, and rough.

“You like it sweet?”

The woman nods. “It reminds me of home.”

Her low voice, the longing she’s trying to hide rolls through Peggy, leaves her heart aching. Partly for the woman, who’s watching the barman trickle sugar into her drink from a teaspoon, mostly for herself. For Steve, whose voice echoes in her head every night, his warm smile and bright eyes always waiting for her behind her eyelids.

Fingers pressing white into her empty glass, Peggy licks the last of the whiskey off her lips. Turning so she’s half facing the woman, she asks, “Where is home?”

There’s a dull clink as the barman rests the spoon in the glass. The woman turns her head to look at Peggy. The trench coat is buttoned up to her chin, and the fedora shadows her face, but her eyes still glint in the low light. They’re bright with something Peggy’s seen only once, in one man and it throws her so completely she gasps.

“Greenwich Village.” The woman says.

Peggy’s heart catches and stumbles, she grips the edge of her skirt so tightly she can feels the stitches start to give but it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter when the last look she saw in Steve’s eyes is echoed back in a deep brown gaze that narrows with concern the longer Peggy stares.  

“Miss…?”

Peggy shakes her head to clear it.

“Another whiskey,” she says although she doesn’t know if the barman’s still there. Doesn’t care. She holds out her hand to the woman, forcing her fingers to stop shaking. “Carter. Peggy Carter.”

The woman takes her hand, her grip is strong and warm, thick with callouses that press against Peggy’s own.

“Diana,” she says. She pauses, smiles and there’s a far off look in her eye Peggy recognises. “Prince.”

“Where did you serve, Diana?”

Diana shrugs. “All over.”

She shuffles on her stool so she’s fully facing Peggy, and picks up her Daiquiri. There’s a clunk and the bartender drops another glass of whiskey at Peggy’s elbow. Peggy takes it and raises it to her lips.

Diana watches, almost through her lashes. It’s a look Peggy’s familiar with, one she’s thrown carelessly over the rims of glasses, one she’s caught time and again in bars not even a block from here. She shouldn’t be surprised, she’s in the West Village after all. Except now she’s not drinking alone.

“What brings you to New York, Miss Carter? I don’t think you’re from around here.”

Peggy smiles. “Clever as well as pretty. I came after the war ended. I never left.”

Diana nods, and Peggy realises she’s barely giving her anything. It’s not like she can. She’s an SSR agent, for crying out loud, her daily life might as well not exist. Country-wide clandestine operations certainly isn’t something she should be telling a stranger in a bar about but...

But the look in Diana’s eyes. The hope. It’s faint and it’s quiet, but it’s there, buried with a deep understanding Peggy’s not seen in anyone since Steve… Peggy makes up her mind. She’s not letting Diana go. Not tonight.

“That’s a Greek accent, Diana.”

Diana tilts her head. “Amongst other things.”

“Have you been in New York long?”

“I’m afraid I’m only visiting.”

Peggy’s stomach sinks. “So you’re going home soon?”

Diana looks away. “No. Not home.”

If she weren’t paying attention Peggy would have missed the tremble in her voice. But she’s so focused on Diana, the way her finger traces the rim of her glass, how her eyes sink softly into sadness, that she realises immediately exactly how lonely Diana is.

And maybe it’s her own loneliness, welling up between the cracks every day, further and further until she drowns it in Bourbon and pretty girls, but Peggy’s hand reaches across the bar top, and after a second Diana catches her fingers and holds on, tight.

“Miss Carter? Come back to my place.”

* * *

Diana’s apartment is small, and she lives there alone. She’s got Peggy out of her blazer, shirt untucked before they’ve even crossed the threshold. Diana kicks the door shut behind them with a bang, her mouth warm and heavy on Peggy’s. Peggy has to stand on her tiptoes to kiss her, but it doesn’t stop her backing Diana against the wall, pinning her there with her hips.

Diana’s happy to let Peggy’s hands wander, unbuckling the belt of her coat and shrugging it off, tossing her hat in some dark corner. She’d foregone her armour, choosing a smart suit instead that Peggy’s already peeling her out of, ditching the jacket on the floor.

“Diana,” Peggy asks, already unbuckling the scabbard at Diana’s back. “Is this a sword?”

“No I’m just happy to see you.”

The sword lands with a heavy clunk on the pile of clothes growing on the floor. Diana’s tongue slips into Peggy’s mouth, and Peggy gasps, her hands moving from around Diana’s waist to her hair, pulling it out of the neat bun it was in so she can slide her hands in and tug. Diana groans into Peggy’s mouth.

“You’re so good at that,” Peggy murmurs against Diana’s lips.

“What, kissing?” Diana pants, Peggy’s lipstick leaving a messy trail down her neck. “Centuries of practice.”

Peggy’s teeth graze Diana’s collarbone. “Another mystery.”

Diana buries her hands in Peggy’s hair, pulling at pins and curls as she brings Peggy’s mouth back to hers. “Ask me later. Right now I want your tongue somewhere else.”

* * *

It’s nearing midnight when Peggy finally settles back against Diana, tangling their legs together with the sheets of Diana’s bed. The rain drums quietly against the window over their heads, the faint sound of cabs swishing through puddles on the street below filling the silence.

“Centuries, huh?” Peggy stares at the ceiling.

Diana’s chest rises and falls softly, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders and the pillows like some fairy princess’s. “I’m not sure you’d understand.”

Peggy smiles in the darkness. “Try me.”

Diana draws shapes with her fingertips on Peggy’s abs. A rocky island, rolling waves. " _Is that supposed to be a horse?"_

Diana chuckles.

“I was born on an island called Themyscira...”

And she tells Peggy everything. Her people’s history, the gods and their war. Training with Aunt Antiope and the stunts they had to pull to hide from her mother. She tells her about kissing girls at the top of the cliffs, in the ocean and in the wide, grassy fields. She tells her about the men who came to her island and brought a world at war screaming behind them. She tells her about Ares, Ludendorff, about Sammy and Charlie and Chief. And she tells her about Steve. Steve and his stupid plane, and his big, stupid heart, and his stupid, brave, _stupid_ sacrifice.

“I had a Steve,” Peggy says. Her head’s on Diana’s shoulder, she’s pressing kisses to her chest. “He was brave. And stupid.”

Diana laughs, her eyes are thick with tears and Peggy gently, so gently wipes them away.

“He died too.”

“You must miss him.”

“Every day,” Peggy whispers.

Diana’s bed creaks as she rolls over, wraps Peggy in her arms. She presses kisses to her hair, and Peggy’s hands tighten on her back. And they just lie there, holding each other as the night rolls slowly on, and the rain falls softly, and they remember.

When Diana wakes in the morning, the dawn sky is streaked pale grey and yellow, the skyline black and clean, waiting for the rising sun. Peggy, already dressed in her rumpled skirt and blouse, brings her a cup of tea.

“Thank you,” Peggy says simply.

“What for?”

“Your story. Your memories. That thing you did with your tongue.” She chuckles, but there’s sincerity in her eyes that makes Diana sit up straight.

“It was good.” Peggy says. “To remember.”

“It’s hard to find someone who really gets it,” Diana agrees. She rests her hand on Peggy’s shoulder, palm warm from the cup of tea. “We’ll see each other again?”

Peggy nods. “I have to go to work but… You can find me at the New York Bell co. Ask for Rose.”

“Next time you have to tell me your story.”

Peggy tilts her head, smiles as she looks into Diana’s earnest eyes. “I will.”

**Author's Note:**

> There was an extra part to the post, Peggy meets Angie like four months later and Diana is the ultimate wingwoman. I'm on Tumblr Salamadersaurus-rex.


End file.
